by Jane Feather
“Then let's wait and see.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hugh gave him a nod and strode off to the hall. Jack's explanation struck him as odd. Privy Seal's guests were unlikely to roam the streets before dawn.
“Where's Robin, sir? Is he going to get better?” Pippa rushed upon Hugh as he entered the hall. “Where did you take him?”
Hugh had to force the smile that normally came so naturally around the child. “He's going to get better,” he said firmly.
“Where is he, Lord Hugh?” Pen's softer voice joined her sister's clamor.
Hugh glanced across the girl's head to where Guinevere was standing beside the dinner table, her eyes on him, questioning and anxious.
He forced another smile. “He's with an old friend,” he said. “Someone skilled at nursing. Let's dine. It grows late and I’ve business to attend to this afternoon.”
They sat down, the household filing in to take their own places. The atmosphere was subdued, Robin's absence keenly felt. Covertly Hugh watched Guinevere. He told himself that to suspect her of trying to poison him at his own dinner table was absurd. He was allowing his fearful fancies to get the better of him. There was no way that at a crowded table she could contaminate food or drink of which he alone would partake. But he was wary nevertheless, choosing only the dishes she herself selected.
Guinevere had no appetite. The man beside her was once more the harsh, judgmental, suspicious man she’d first met. There was no humor, no warmth, none of the passion for her that usually ran so close to the surface. Even in anger, that passionate desire had been obvious. But now it was doused, in its place something she could only describe as revulsion. And it was unendurable. It was unbelievable and unendurable and slowly her dismay faded to be replaced with pure anger.
“We must talk,” she said abruptly. “After dinner.”
“If you wish,” he responded distantly. “I can spare a few minutes.”
She said nothing more to him, confining her conversation to the girls and the magister, who did his best to fill the silences with intense scholarly discussion. Hugh said nothing to anyone, but his preoccupation was easily explained as worry over Robin.
As soon as the meal was over, Guinevere rose from the table. “Magister Howard, would it please you to take the girls out for a walk this afternoon? It's a pleasant afternoon and there's much they should learn about the city and its history.”
“They need an escort,” Hugh said sharply. “An old man and two small girls wandering alone around the city! Don’t be absurd … Jack?” He beckoned to Jack Stedman who was about to leave the table.
“Aye, sir.” Jack came over immediately.
“Arrange for three men to accompany Magister Howard and Lady Guinevere's daughters this afternoon. They wish to go for a walk.”
Jack nodded and strode off. Pippa regarded Hugh with wide eyes. “You’re cross,” she stated. “Why are you cross, Lord Hugh?”
“He's not cross,” Pen told her. “Lord Hugh's worried about Robin.”
“Yes, Pen,” Hugh said in slightly softened tones. “I’m not cross with anyone, Pippa.” He smiled at the child and chucked her beneath the chin. “Enjoy your walk.”
Pen hesitated, her sensitive gaze doubtful, questioning, as if she saw the effort it cost him to smile, to sound like himself once more. She glanced at her mother who said softly, “Go and fetch your cloaks. Don’t keep the magister waiting.”
Pen grasped her sister's sleeve and pulled her away to the stairs.
Hugh turned to Guinevere. “You wished to talk with me, madam.” His voice was expressionless, his eyes unreadable.
“Let us go abovestairs,” she said tautly. “This business is best conducted in privacy.” She turned to follow her daughters up the stairs, her anger visible in every line of her erect body.
She entered their bedchamber leaving the door open behind her so that he could follow her in. He entered and closed the door firmly.
“Well?”
“What do you mean, well?” she demanded, spinning to face him. She stood in the window embrasure, her back to the light, her hands as always clasped quietly against her skirts. The light behind her bouncing off her white silk hood created a golden halo. “What is going on here, Hugh?”
He rubbed his face with his hands, hard and fast, trying to decide how to respond. He couldn’t voice his suspicions. Not without proof. He couldn’t begin to find the words to accuse this woman. Despite his conviction, he couldn’t speak the words. “I’m concerned for Robin. That's all.”
“Oh, yes, I understand that,” she said, her voice suddenly very soft but the anger still there, still dangerous. “But why am I to be attacked, Hugh? Why do you look at me in such fashion?”
“What fashion?” He tried to sound normal, reasonable.
“You know. What is it that you suspect?” When he said nothing, she repeated, “What is it that you suspect, my lord? Oh, come now, surely you have the courage to confront me!” She gave a short bitter laugh. “Say it, Hugh. Say it.”
“Say what? There is nothing to say.” He turned from her, pushing a slipping log back into the fireplace with the toe of his boot. “My son is at death's door. What else is there to say?”
“That you suspect me of having some hand in his illness,” she threw at him. “I killed my husbands, or one of them, at least. Of that you’re convinced. So why wouldn’t
I continue the pattern? If I want my lands back, I have to get rid of Robin and then you. Or you first. It matters little.” Her voice dripped contempt. “I cannot live with a man who could believe such a thing of me.”
“I do not believe it,” he stated. “You’re talking arrant nonsense, Guinevere. I am at my wit's end about Robin. Of course I’m not behaving in my usual fashion. Now, if we’ve finished with this nonsense, I am going back to my son.” He stalked to the door.
“If you don’t believe it, why won’t you let me nurse him? Why would you remove him from this house?”
He stood with his hand on the latch. “I don’t know. I’m not myself. I’m not capable of rational thought at present. I would have hoped for some understanding from you.” He opened the door and left.
Guinevere sat down on the window seat. He had denied his suspicions, but what else had she expected? He wouldn’t admit to something so monstrous, not without proof. Was he trying to throw her off guard while he found such proof?
Hugh entered the stable yard shouting for his horse. Tyler brought the charger at a run. “Ye want I should accompany ye, m’lord? ’Old the ’orse fer ye. Walk ’im while ye goes about yer business.”
Hugh hesitated, absently checking the animal's girth. It seemed snug, the leather intact. He didn’t really like to leave his horse unattended in the lane for any length of time and he didn’t want to have to hurry over his visit this afternoon. Someone to keep an eye on his horse while he was with Martha and Robin would be useful. He was reluctant to reveal Robin's whereabouts, even to a servant, but he could leave Tyler and the horses outside the Bull Tavern, a few lanes away from the cottage.
“Don’t you have other tasks to perform?” He swung into the saddle.
“No, I’m off fer a couple of hours, m’lord. I’d be ’appy to ’elp out.” Tyler touched his forelock with an ingratiating smile.
“Very well.” Hugh controlled his prancing charger. “Fetch a horse then.”
Tyler reappeared within minutes, leading a dun pony. He mounted somewhat awkwardly and they rode out of the yard, Tyler's pony keeping a discreet distance behind the charger.
Hugh rode fast, his anxiety making his heart race. What would he find? Had Robin worsened in the last few hours? He found he couldn’t think about his conversation, if that was what it could be called, with Guinevere. He didn’t know if his denial had convinced her, he suspected not, but until he had proof he couldn’t confront her. Once Robin was out of the woods he would match plots with plots. But until then, he could think of nothing but his son.
Outside the Bull he dismounted and waited for Tyler to catch up with him. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. Take ale if you wish, but walk him every hour. I’ll find you here.”
“Aye, m’lord.” Tyler took the charger's reins and tethered him with his own horse to the hitching post beside the ale bench. Lord Hugh set off with his long loping stride and once he had disappeared around the corner, Tyler followed at a run. He stalked his quarry, ducking into doorways, waiting at corners, until Hugh turned up the narrow pathway of a small cottage.
Then Tyler returned to the horses and the ale bench.
Hugh entered Martha's cottage, ducking beneath the low lintel, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. “How is he?” His voice rasped, harsh with fear.
“ ’Oldin’ steady, m’lord,” Martha said from the low stool beside the cot. “If ’e gets no worse, we can start to ’ope.”
Hugh felt a rush of relief. He strode to the pallet, bending over Robin. The boy was still hot, his eyes closed, his pulse rapid, but there was something about him that gave hope. He seemed less in pain, no longer struggling for breath. “How's the cough?”
“A bit better. Whatever the lad was breathin’ he isn’t breathin’ it anymore. Not in ’ere.”
“What do you mean?” Hugh straightened, staring at the old woman.
She shrugged. “I’d say the boy was breathin’ summat unhealthful,” she said. “I’d say ye did well to get ’im out o’ the ’ouse.”
“Poison?”
She shrugged again. “ ’Tis not fer me to say, sir.”
“No,” he agreed, turning his gaze back to his son. “No. Not for you to say.”
26
Tyler walked the horses every hour as instructed. He guessed that the boy was in the cottage. If so it would make his task all the speedier. If matters went according to plan, he’d dispose of both of his quarry by soon after sunset. On his last walk with the horses, he stopped them in a narrow dark lane formed by the high brick walls of two large properties. The sun rarely penetrated this muddy and rank space and Lord Hugh's horse whistled through his nostrils and pawed the wet ground uneasily.
“Steady now,” Tyler murmured, laying a hand on the animal's neck in brief reassurance. He leaned under the horse's belly and slid a finger beneath the girth, lifting it away from the hard round swell of flesh, feeling for the perfect spot at which a swift, deft slice would cut the girth two thirds through. He would need to do it without looking since he couldn’t cut the strap until Lord Hugh was mounted. If it was weakened it would slip sideways as soon as the man pulled himself up.
His original plan had been to weaken the girth over a period of days until it finally gave way, preferably when he was nowhere in the vicinity. Once Lord Hugh was unhorsed there would be Tyler's own hired hands to finish off the task, but no suspicion would rest upon the indispensable servant. Unfortunately Lord Hugh had discovered the original cut. Tyler had a dislike of sudden action, mistakes were made in haste. But in this instance, he had no time for devious approaches.
He straightened. Again he stroked the animal's neck for a minute or two before he took from his pocket a tiny stone, its edges wickedly sharpened. Patting the charger's flank he bent and lifted his left rear hoof. He pushed the stone beneath the iron shoe where it would dig into the soft pad of flesh, then he set the hoof back on the mud.
“Come on, then, laddie,” he exhorted cheerily, taking the reins. “Let's see ’ow this feels.” He led both horses out of the narrow alley and back into the wider thoroughfare.
He tethered them once again at the Bull and then retraced his steps to the lane where he’d seen Lord Hugh enter the cottage. He stood at the corner of the lane in the shadow of a doorway and scrutinized the small building. Just a ground floor, no dormers in the front, low-pitched thatched roof. A tiny front garden given over to herbs, a few vegetables, an apple tree. Narrow front door, two shuttered windows on either side. Smoke curling from a single chimney. The wall of the cottage next door on the right abutted this one, but a narrow path led around the side between it and its left-hand neighbor. There would be something at the back. Chickens probably. A rooster. Noisy birds.
No, an approach would be best made directly through the front door. He would create a diversion that would cause the occupant to open the door. He would be positioned behind it. Tyler fingered the garrote he carried in his pocket. A silent killer. It would take care quietly of whoever came to the door. No one would be aware of what was happening. He would push the lifeless body inside and deal with the boy. Even if he was recovering, the lad would be weak, bedridden. It would be over in a heartbeat with no sound and no one the wiser. He would make his escape through the rear. Again it was all a little precipitate for Tyler's taste, but the job now needed to reach a swift conclusion.
He smiled and picked a leaf from the next-door privet hedge, crumbling it between his fingers, inhaling its scent.
The cottage door opened and Lord Hugh appeared. He turned to speak to someone inside before coming down the path.
Tyler ran back to the Bull. He sat down on the ale bench, stretching his legs with every appearance of taking his ease, and looked at Lord Hugh's horse dispassionately. The stone would start to irritate under his rider's weight within five minutes. Five minutes would take them to the bottom of Ludgate Hill. At that time of day there would be crowds from the dispersing street markets, raucous tavern-goers, boatmen from the river. The city gates would be closing for curfew. A bolting horse in a dark alley …
Lord Hugh came around the corner. He raised an acknowledging hand to Tyler. His posture, his whole demeanor, lacked the heaviness of before, Tyler thought. The boy must be on the mend.
He rose from the ale bench and hurried to untie the horses as Hugh reached them. “All well, m’lord?”
But the glance Tyler received in response, distant, deeply troubled, made nonsense of his earlier assumption. “All well, m’lord?” he repeated with careful hesitation.
Hugh's gaze focused. “Yes,” he said brusquely. “Come, it grows late.” He swung onto the charger with one easy movement.
“A moment, sir.” Tyler bent to the stirrup, his knife concealed in the palm of his hand. “The leather's twisted.”
Hugh lifted his foot from the stirrup while Tyler adjusted it. He paid no attention to the man, barely noticed his actions. He needed to get home. And yet home was the last place he wanted to be.
They rode down Ludgate Hill. Hugh was deep in thought. Robin was getting better. He knew instinctively that his son would now live. Out of the poisonous atmosphere of the house at Holborn, Robin was recovering. But now Hugh faced the unthinkable. His marriage was over. Until Guinevere was out of his house, Hugh could not think of bringing Robin home. He still had no definitive proof of her hand in his son's poisoning, but he didn’t need it. No one else had a motive for destroying Robin. History and the circumstances were too heavily weighted against her. He had to be rid of her. But how?
He could denounce her to Privy Seal. Cromwell would delight in having her once more in his power. He would have her executed, but he would also ensure that the marriage settlements were void. Privy Seal's plan all along had been that Guinevere should forfeit her estates to the crown. Hugh would receive some reward that would benefit Robin but would leave Hugh himself little better off than before.
Even as the thought of a woman who could plot the death of an innocent child filled him with revulsion; even though he felt what could only be called loathing for the woman who was now his wife, Hugh did not want her death. It would do him no good and he could not endure to have her motherless children on his conscience. He would take care of his wife himself. He would ensure that she could harm no one again. He would banish her. Send her back to Derbyshire. She could do him and his son no harm from there. He would keep her in virtual imprisonment with a guard of his own men.
What possible alternative was there?
His horse stumbled and he pulled him up with more roughness th
an the animal was accustomed to. The cobbles were slimy with refuse. The horse whinnied and tossed his head. Hugh stared in front of him, unaware of the folk swarming around them.
“We’ll lose the crowd if we go thisaway, m’lord.”
Tyler's insistent voice pierced Hugh's thoughts. “What?” His eyes followed the direction of Tyler's whip, pointing into a lane to their left. “Oh, yes. These damnable crowds.” He turned his horse toward the narrow entrance to the alley.
Tyler's pony followed. Hugh's charger stumbled again, whinnied, lifting his hurt hoof. Tyler brought his crop down over the animal's crupper. The charger reared, the cut girth gave way, and the saddle slipped sideways. Hugh plunged to the ground, one foot still caught in the stirrup. The charger pranced on three legs, his hooves inches from his rider's head.
Hugh twisted, dragged his imprisoned foot free, pulling the saddle down with him, just as the hurt and outraged animal brought his front hooves crashing to the muddy ground of the alley, trampling Hugh's outstretched hand.
Hugh gave a cry of pain. In the same moment Tyler leaped from his horse, his knife in one hand, his whip in the other. He slashed at the horse again and the high-strung animal reared and crashed around the narrow alley in anger and confusion.
Hugh knew he had to get to his feet, away from the plunging hooves. His hand was useless; it was his knife hand. He rolled sideways, curled his body, and sprang to his feet almost in the same movement. Tyler leaped for him, his knife poised to cut deep into Hugh's chest. Hugh kicked out, caught the man in the groin. Tyler yelled in pain but kept coming. The knife came down. Hugh twisted and it slashed across his forearm.
Hugh couldn’t free his sword from the scabbard on his left side. His right hand was useless and the sword was too heavy and cumbersome to drag out and up with his left hand. He ducked as Tyler came at him again and with a silent prayer dived beneath the charger's belly. One hoof caught him a glancing blow on his shoulder but then he was out the other side and the wildly thrashing animal lay between him and Tyler.
